


École Maternelle Les Amis

by defractum (nyargles)



Series: Tumblr Fic & Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, Pre-Slash, because they are kids :x
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Les Amis are all either teachers or students at Les Amis Nursery School.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [École Maternelle Les Amis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610689) by [KaterinaJA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaterinaJA/pseuds/KaterinaJA)



> Each chapter is its own little drabble, though the events are posted in chronological order.

Grantaire hits Enjolras over the head with his plastic sword at playtime. Enjolras screws up his chubby face like he wants to cry, and it takes all the control he has gained over his four short years of experience to stop himself.

"R," says Courfeyrac, softly chiding, "What did we say hitting other people was?"

Grantaire tilts his head as he thinks. “Bad!” He blinks up at Courfeyrac, one wispy flyaway curl dropping over his face and beams, looking very proud of himself for having remembered. “I’m very bad!”

"Yes, that’s it," says Courfeyrac, trying to be stern in the face of huge, wibbly eyes. "You can’t play with the sword if you’re going to hit people with it."

Grantaire pouts, and hugs the sword to himself as if Courfeyrac will take it off him. Enjolras speaks up. “But that’s what swords are for!”

Courfeyrac looks over at him, where he’s now planted two chubby fists on his hips. “Sorry?”

"It’s what swords are for!" Enjolras repeats emphatically, and it would be more dramatic if there weren’t still remnants of a lisp. "Swords are for hitting people! Bad people!” He has his own sword, lying forgotten by his foot, dropped when Grantaire smacked him. He picks it up and Courfeyrac can see the gears turning in his head, going over the conversation they just had about bad people as he uncertainly taps Grantaire over the top of the head with it.

Grantaire  _does_  cry. He bursts into loud tears and Enjolras’s face drops, eyes suddenly wide. He drops his sword with a clatter. “Sorry, sorry, don’t cry,” he says, stumbling over to pull Grantaire into a hug and awkwardly petting his curls right where he’d been hit. Courfeyrac, who can see Grantaire’s evil, scheming, distinctly-not-actually-crying face from here, pulls a hand over his face and sighs.

Grantaire crumples onto Enjolras and they end up a little heap on the floor as Grantaire curls up on Enjolras’ lap and sobs crocodile tears into his neck as Enjolras looks steadily more distraught.

"Right," says Courfeyrac, who declares that he’s going to quit every other day but actually can’t tear himself away from the soap opera of the E and R show. "Let’s not play  _Slay the dragons and teachers_  from now on.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids are mean and kisses do not mean the same thing to children as they do to adults.

Kiss chase is the worst game ever invented by children, thinks Courfeyrac. He remembers playing it as a child, how everyone had shrieked over the idea of being kissed and run away as quickly as they could.

He’d been ‘it’ a multitude of times. It was half an immense rush of power, having people melt out of the way when he approached, and half the loneliest existence he could remember. The game doesn’t seem to have changed.

One of the girls in Marius’ class is ‘it’ and she stomps and yells as the playground clears out in a ripple effect in front of her. Eponine grins, momentarily pleased that everyone is paying attention to her, but it doesn’t last long. Soon, it gets boring when she can’t catch anyone and no one will go near her. She eventually sits, not quite sulkily, in the least desirable corner of the playground by herself and Courfeyrac’s heart breaks. Children can be so unknowingly cruel.

Grantaire meanders out of the toilet, hands still half wet and damp smears across his thighs where he’d tried to dry them. Eponine lights up at the sight of unwitting prey and darts up to catch him. “Got you!” She crows happily, and then blinks as it sinks in that she’s supposed to actually kiss him now she’s caught him. There’s a reason that no one ever wins this awful game.

Eponine screws her nose up - half the playground is staring at her to see what she will do. She gives Grantaire a tiny peck on the cheek, more a headbutt with her face than a kiss. Squeals of disgust and voyeuristic delight resound around the playground.

Grantaire scrubs at his cheek. “Hello.”

"Hello," says Eponine, still holding onto Grantaire’s sweatshirt.

Grantaire looks at Eponine, who seems uncertain of what to do now, then over at Enjolras who’s been waiting for him to get out of the toilet. “You can do that again, if you want,” he says graciously because he is a tiny kid with the biggest heart ever.

Enjolras practically flies across the playground. “No, she can’t!” He yells.

Eponine narrows her eyes and surveys them both. “No thanks,” she says loftily. “You’re ‘it’ now.” She scampers away, rejoicing in her newly-healed-leper status.

"I’m ‘it’ now," says Grantaire, as if Enjolras might not have heard her the first time and is giving Enjolras a fair chance. "You’re s’posed to run away."

Enjolras scowls. “Don’t wanna. We can both be ‘it’.”

"We can’t both be ‘it’," explains Grantaire patiently. "You’re only ‘it’ if you get kissed."

Enjolras crosses his arms, his face taking on the mullish expression that Courfeyrac recognises as his attempt to not pout.

"Fine then." Grantaire leans forward and plops a kiss on Enjolras’ cheek. "Now we’re both it."

"Okay," says Enjolras, immediately brightening up. "Let’s go." He wiggles his fingers and Grantaire puts his hand in his. They put their heads together for a short moment to have a super-secret discussion over tactics before taking up a loud war cry and charging toward their prey together, children scattering in their wake.

This is not how kiss-chase worked when Courfeyrac was a kid.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stickers are the currency of the kiddy world.

“And a gold star for you,” says Courfeyrac. That means that Grantaire gets to pick out a sticker. He chooses a green sparkly smiley face and Courfeyrac helps him press it onto his sweatshirt. His chest puffs out a little with pride, and he scampers off back to his seat to show Enjolras.

The children are given gold stars for good behaviour and random acts of kindness in an attempt to foster decent little human beings before they’re expected to throw themselves at the mercy of the academic school system. Courfeyrac presses a little gold star onto Grantaire’s row on the wall chart, and smiles a little. Grantaire’s going to get the grand prize again this week.

The ‘grand prize’ for having the most gold stars in a week is that they get custody of the class mascot, Monsieur Ruffles, for the following week. Monsieur Ruffles, who started life off as a very dignified stuffed bear with spectacles that Courfeyrac bought because it reminded him uncannily of Combeferre, is now rather tatty and spends his days on various children’s desks.

When Courfeyrac turns around, trouble is brewing again. “Green is a silly colour,” Enjolras is saying, and Grantaire’s face falls. He rubs his sticker unhappily and Courfeyrac hauls his arse over there to stomp on this as soon as possible.

“Green is a very nice colour and Grantaire likes it,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “You can’t be mean to people just because they like different things to you.”

“If  _I_  had a sticker, it would be red,” says Enjolras imperiously. And  _oh_ , that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

“If you were nicer to people, you would have more stickers,” says Courfeyrac gently. It’s true – Enjolras’ row on the wall chart is distinctly lacking in gold stars. It’s not that he’s a bad child, not at all. He doesn’t even rank in a list of worst behaved children that Courfeyrac has ever taught. It’s just that Enjolras’ default is not nice, it’s  _right_ , and more often than not, that ends in shouting and some other child flouncing off in tears.

There’s a clamour on the other side of the room. Joly and Bossuet are pulling Musichetta’s pigtails, literally, and Courfeyrac leaves Enjolras and Grantaire be for now. They can sort the rest of this one out by themselves, surely. He heads off to save Musichetta but it’s too late; she turns around and bites them both. Courfeyrac sighs.

The next time that Courfeyrac sees Grantaire, the green sparkly sticker is gone. He wonders if he ought to say something, then wonders what it is he would say. He keeps quiet, and then feels guilty for doing so all through lunch.

On the playground after lunch, Montparnasse falls over in a truly spectacular fashion and scrapes his leg along the ground. The fact that Montparnasse is a truly vile child, even at the age of five, and had fallen because he was trying to push and trip other children over and therefore it’s his own damn fault doesn’t matter. The graze runs from the top of his knee right down to his shin and blood goes  _everywhere_.

Montparnasse gets one look, and starts bawling.

Jehan runs for the first aid box. Courfeyrac runs toward Montparnasse. Someone else gets there first. Grantaire throws himself onto the ground and gives Montparnasse a huge hug. “Are you okay?!”

Montparnasse stops crying and hiccups, possibly out of sheer shock at the force of Grantaire’s hug. “No,  _stupid_ ,” he says, lip quivering and tears still in the corner of his eyes. “It hurts _._ ”

“It’s going to be okay,” says Courfeyrac, hovering rather uselessly as Grantaire helps Montparnasse get up and dust the dirt off his hands and clothes. Thankfully, Jehan gets back to start cleaning up the blood and dressing the wound, and Grantaire gives him another hug. Montparnasse looks a little bit lost, as if he doesn’t know what to do with hugs, which is a terrible thought and one that Courfeyrac is going to pass onto Combeferre to see what they can make out of that.

Grantaire gets another gold star for that. Courfeyrac gets him up to the front of the classroom quietly when the class is busy with making shapes from jigsaw pieces and Grantaire fiddles with the hem of his sweatshirt. “Um,” he says, “the red one please.” Courfeyra’s eyebrow twitches, but he hands over the red sparkly sticker anyway.

As he expects, Grantaire slides back into his seat, and silently offers up his red sticker to Enjolras.

“I don’t want it,” says Enjolras. It’s taking him an awful lot of self-control to say this because he is four and Courfeyrac can see from here that he does want it, really really badly.

Grantaire’s face falls. Again. (Courfeyrac groans mentally, and considers abolishing the gold star system for the umpteenth time.) Enjolras takes the sticker off Grantaire’s fingers and presses it onto Grantaire’s t-shirt. “It’s your sticker, you should wear it.”

“Enjolras,” calls Courfeyrac, and waves for him to come up to the front of the classroom. “Grantaire, you too.” He surveys the two of them in front of him, and picks his words very carefully. “Grantaire. You can’t give your stickers to Enjolras.”

“But I want to!” Grantaire looks like he’s on the verge of crying. “It’s red and sparkly and he likes it!”

“It’s a very nice thought, but he has to earn his own. Alright, Grantaire?”

Grantaire nods, sniffling slightly, and Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. “It was the thought that counted though, and it was very kind of you to want your friend to be happy, so you can have another sticker.”

Grantaire looks absolutely distraught now with  _two_ stickers and Enjolras none, but Courfeyrac isn’t finished yet. “Enjolras,” he says.

Enjolras fidgets. “I just wanted Grantaire to be happy and wear his own sticker,” he says woefully.

“I know,” says Courfeyrac. “You’re not in trouble. In fact, that was very nice of you. I think that deserves a gold star, don’t you?”

Enjolras blinks up at Courfeyrac. “ _Really_?”

“Really,” says Courfeyrac, confirming it by sticking a gold star next to Enjolras’ name. “What colour sticker do you want?”

And Courfeyrac sees it coming, he really does, when Enjolras points at a green sparkly sticker the same as the one Grantaire got earlier. He grins, and thinks that he’s managed to get his lesson across quite well today. He presses it onto Enjolras’ t-shirt and ruffles his hair too. “Okay, you two. Go and finish your circle.”

Class finishes in five minutes, and Courfeyrac is glad. He needs to go back into the staffroom and clutch Jehan pathetically and flail over his adorable fucking kids.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras impersonates a fairytale character, and Grantaire has a very broad idea of what counts as craft time.

Courfeyrac knows immediately that something is wrong. For one, Enjolras is dropped off in the morning and he’s wearing a hoodie. Enjolras is the kind of child who has to be wrestled into a coat on days when it is snowing; it’s rare form for him to wear anything more than a t-shirt now that the sun is starting to come out. The second thing is that he has the hood up over his head, the drawstrings pulled tight, and is refusing to take it off.

On the other hand, there are at least three kids crying as their parents try to leave so he has bigger problems right now. Courfeyrac trusts Enjolras to be reasonably sensible, and he’s sure that he’ll find out what’s going on as the day progresses.

That happens rather sooner than Courfeyrac is expecting. Grantaire arrives, waves goodbye to his mother after a quick kiss on the cheek and bounds into the classroom. “Why are you dressed like  _that_?” is the first thing he says, and yanks the hood down off Enjolras’ head.

 _Oh_.

Enjolras stares, too startled to move, and then scrabbles to pull his hood back up.

"What happened to your  _hair_?” blurts out Grantaire. Courfeyrac kind of wants to ask the same thing. For as long as Enjolras has been attending the nursery, Enjolras has had mid-length to long hair. It always falls below his ears, often times long enough to be pulled back with a hair tie. Now, he’s been given a short back and sides, his hair barely long enough to form tufty curls at the top.

"Stop it," says Enjolras, batting Grantaire’s hands away as he tries to tug the hood back down for another look. "I said  _stop_!”

Grantaire does, and stares as Enjolras struggles to pretend everything is fine. “S’not bad,” says Grantaire finally, hesitantly, with all the tact that he can muster in his four year old mind. “Just new.”

"Father didn’t like it long," says Enjolras stiffly, doing the drawstrings back up, and really, that says it all, doesn’t it? Courfeyrac has met Enjolras’ father exactly once, when they had visited the school before Enjolras was to attend. He doesn’t come to the parent evenings.

"You look like Red Riding Hood," says Grantaire as a peace offering. "She’s  _cool_.” They’d read the story of Red Riding Hood a couple of weeks back, Courfeyrac pretending to be the wolf as his students gutted him open with plastic swords to rescue Granny and Red.

Enjolras tentatively smiles. It’s a start.

The hood stays up for most of the morning. Courfeyrac’s tried to talk him into taking it off but he won’t, and there’s nothing Courfeyrac can do short of physically making him and he doesn’t want to resort to that. It’s not until craft time, where they’re trying to make castles out of egg cartons and toilet roll cardboard tubes, that Courfeyrac looks up from helping someone tape their egg carton shut that he sees Enjolras walking past with his hood down. He looks slightly subdued, but he’s not sulking as Courfeyrac would have expected.

Courfeyrac smiles, and suspects nothing, which is frankly a huge mistake – he’s been doing this job for almost six years now, his internal hijinks radar should have been shooting off the charts at that but it  _didn’t_  and it’s not until he sees Grantaire that the penny drops.

"Oh  _mer—_ ciful sweet God,” he says, just barely avoiding swearing in front of the kids. Courfeyrac dashes over to the other side of the classroom. Instead of cutting his cardboard tubes up, Grantaire has chopped off a sizeable amount of his own hair with his safety scissors and is giggling. Curly tufts of dark hair litter the part of the table he shares with Enjolras, and Enjolras is snipping bits off the back where Grantaire can’t see, the two of them babbling as if everything is fine. Everything is not fine.

"Enjolras, stop.  _Stop._ ”

"It’s okay, M. Courfeyrac," says Grantaire cheerfully, "I said he could."

"Of course you did," says Courfeyrac, "but Enjolras doesn’t know how to cut hair, you know. Why don’t we, er, wait for Grantaire’s mama to sort it out?"

"Okay," says Enjolras, unperturbed, and puts down the safety scissors to help Grantaire shake out loose strands of dark hair.

"Right," says Courfeyrac, feeling slightly less like he’s about to have a heart attack now, "Let’s get this cleaned up, and then we should get these towers onto this castle, hmm?"

Out comes the dustpan and brush and a lot of vigorous, enthusiastic brushing on the part of the two kids which involves hair flying everywhere but the actual dust pan, and Courfeyrac pokes his hair out of the classroom door. “Cosette!” he whispers dramatically in the direction of the reception, “Help!”

Cosette cranes her neck around her computer to see him and frowns. Courfeyrac waves her over. “What is it?” she asks.

"I need you to phone a parent for me," says Courfeyrac. "And, erm. Explain to her that her kid may have cut his hair off during craft time today."

Cosette just  _looks_  at him.

"I know," groans Courfeyrac. "Trust me, I know."

Cosette leaves to go do exactly that and Courfeyrac looks after her for a second, taking that moment to inhale deeply and pull himself together. He has the whole of the afternoon to prepare for being yelled at by an angry parents, he supposes, but right now, he has castles to build.

And, so help him, Courfeyrac cares more about the wellbeing of his kids than he does their parents and the fact remains: Grantaire doesn’t seem to care that his hair is gone and Enjolras is looking a whole lot happier. Courfeyrac can’t find it in himself to be too worried.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is considering getting a coffee IV drip and painting does not necessarily involve paper.

Courfeyrac starts his day with a mug of coffee. That’s to get him through breakfast and into his clothes and out of the door. The second coffee is drunk at school before the children arrive. That one’s to get him through the parents. His third one is during break, and that’s more of a reward for having successfully got through two hours of kids.

"Rough morning?" asks Combeferre, sinking into a chair beside him, and Courfeyrac starts. He hadn’t even realised that he’s been staring longingly at the coffee machine for the last five minutes, but he’s promised himself that he’s not resorting to  _four_ cups of coffee a day. That would be just ridiculous.

"Not as bad as it could have been," Courfeyrac says with a grimace, knocking two knuckles on wood.

Combeferre snorts. It’s all right for him – he teaches the oldest kids, the  _grande_ section; by the time the kids get to him, they’re a little more mature, a little less prone to outbursts. “Those two. I have no idea how they didn’t manage to drive Marius away last year.”

Marius had spent much of his first year ever as a nursery teacher feeling like an immense failure, and Courfeyrac had always thought he’d been exaggerating a little whenever he morosely told them about whatever pickle he’d had to sort out that day. Now, Grantaire and Enjolras have been under Courfeyrac’s care for only a month and he already wants to tear his hair out.

"He only stayed because  _Cosette_ ,” mutters Courfeyrac, referring to the receptionist who had started just last February.

"Cosette?" asks Marius from across the room. Courfeyrac exchanges a pained look with Combeferre, who just laughs at him, because of course Marius would have supernatural hearing when it came to his beloved.

"Is an angel," says Jehan reassuringly as he sails in. "Now, come on, why are you all still here? Children are arriving."

Courfeyrac looks at his empty coffee cup and sighs. “I’ll see you on the other side,” he said, only half joking.

~

Grantaire is covered in paint. That’s to be expected though; it is art time and he loves art time. Unfortunately, it’s a bit of a special case today: this one’s Enjolras’s fault

He had been sticking his tongue out with concentration as he traced swirls over his paper using his fingers. He’s good at art for his age; capable of being neat and colouring within the lines when they do colouring but letting his enthusiasm flow free when they paint. Then Enjolras had tugged at Courfeyrac’s sleeve and said that Grantaire had used up all of the green paint. Courfeyrac had taken the bottle over and had been refilling their shared pot when Grantaire had pointed at Enjolras’s trees and said that the trees were supposed to be orange in Autumn, not green anyway, and tried to paint orange over Enjolras’s green trees.

Enjolras had yelled and pushed his arm away. His elbow had caught on the new pot of green paint, which had gone splattering across their table – and Grantaire’s painting. It was then Grantaire’s turn to scream bloody murder, and a pot of paint had ended up on Enjolras’s head, blue streaking through his blond hair and trickling down his nose.

Enjolras is covered in blue paint, Grantaire is wearing the purple and yellow, and now Courfeyrac has red all down his left leg from when he’d stepped in between just as Grantaire had thrown it. The rest of the class had been all set to throw up their paintbrushes and go for the immersive experience too before Courfeyrac had firmly separated the two wailing boys and set them on opposite ends of the classroom.

Grantaire is sobbing and trying to salvage his ruined painting (which now has flowers floating in mid-air, but it’s a pretty good attempt for a four year old) and Enjolras has his arms crossed and is sulkily muttering about how art is really stupid anyway.

"Thanks for coming, Jehan," says Courfeyrac when what he really wants to do is have a minor break down. Not in front of the kids though. "I’ll be back in a moment." Jehan is one of the teachers for their special needs students if they have separate lessons but his students are in with the rest of the  _petite_  section with Marius for now and he’s perfectly willing to look over Courf’s  _moyenne_ section for ten minutes as Courfeyrac goes to change. He gives Courfeyrac a smile, and a pat on the shoulder that promises a hug later, in the staffroom.

Courfeyrac limps off, his trouser leg sticking uncomfortably to his shin and red paint dripping down onto his sock. He pulls himself into his spare clothes, and then allows himself to sneak in a quick cup of coffee, hastily gulped down, before going to face his class again. Jehan works wonders, and he works them quickly. The class is down to a low buzz of noise that counts as ‘practically silent’ for teaching children under eight.

Enjolras’s hair is now damp but mostly clean apart from the bit behind his neck he can’t see in the mirror. Grantaire has pulled his apron and sweatshirt off and Jehan is helping them fill the big sink with soap and water. Grantaire is soaking the sweatshirt and when Enjolras moves next to him to take the apron and help, he doesn’t protest.

"Thank you," says Coufeyrac, and he hopes it comes across that he means thanks for everything, not just covering for the last ten minutes.

Jehan wipes his hands and leaves the two boys at the sink. “No problem,” he says, stretching his back. They look over at Enjolras and Grantaire, kneading fabric in the warm, soapy water and occasionally quietly bickering.

"Little monsters," sighs Courfeyrac under his breath.

Jehan laughs, a huff of warm air coasting across Courfeyrac’s ear. “You’re doing a good job. They ran roughshod over poor Marius last year. They want to apologise to you, by the way.” He waves as he departs for the  _petite_ section classroom. Courfeyrac waves back absently and comes up behind the two boys.

"Are you two going to behave yourselves if I let you sit together again?" asks Courfeyrac, trying to look stern.

"Yes," says Grantaire immediately, clutching at Enjolras’s arm with his soapy hands. Enjolras ignores the wet hand prints Grantaire leaves on his long t-shirt and nods emphatically.

"Alright. I hear you had something to say to me?" Courfeyrac prompts.

"We’re sorry," they chorus, looking the perfect pair of contrite angels, one dark-haired and one fair. (Courfeyrac doesn’t believe it for a second.)

He takes the items of clothing they’ve been attempting to wring out. “Apology accepted. Now, let’s get these hung out so they’ll be dry before home time.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is music time and clapping is a strenuous task for a four year old.

Enjolras is really,  _really_ bad at music time. Well, really bad at what passes for music time at Les Amis Nursery School. He has absolutely no sense of rhythm and, more importantly, he can tell and it really bothers him, unlike the other kids who don’t understand rhythm.

 Courfeyrac is on the guitar, the kids are in a wonky oval shape, which is about as good as it gets for four year olds, and they are attempting to sing Frére Jacques and clap in time. If they manage to get through it three times, Courfeyrac is going to attempt to do it as a round, anticipating chaos. 

There are at least four other kids in the class clapping whenever they feel like it, one who’s singing a word behind everyone else and Joly is gleefully and deliberately clapping on the wrong beat as Bossuet eggs him on. So really, it wouldn’t be such a big deal that Enjolras can’t do it. At least, it wouldn’t be a big deal if not for Grantaire sitting next to him, trying very enthusiastically to show him how to do it.

Grantaire is over-exaggerating his claps, like adults have a habit of doing for toddlers, except it’s not helping and just keeps drawing everyone’s attention that Enjolras is still not managing it. Enjolras is getting steadily more red in the face, and Courfeyrac draws them to an end after this time, strumming his guitar in a ridiculous outro and making the kids laugh.

"Alright, let’s kick it up a notch," Courfeyrac says, rubbing his hands together and starting to sort the kids into four groups. When he gets around to Enjolras and Grantaire, Grantaire’s broken his way out of the almost-circle and is worming his way behind Enjolras, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’ waist as he squirms into position, his short legs sticking out either side of Enjolras’.

"Oooooh. Your hair doesn’t stick in my face now it’s short," says Grantaire happily over Enjolras’ shoulder. He looks far too pleased with himself.

Courfeyrac falters, because despite what the evidence points to, random snuggling in the middle of music time is not a common occurence. “Grantaire, what are you doing?”

"Helping," says Grantaire cheerfully, and puts his hands over Enjolras’ own and wiggles their fingers. "Now we can clap together!"

"I—" Courfeyrac is a grown adult, who does not betray his feelings on his face, no matter how goddarn cute this is. "That’s very nice of you. But only if Enjolras wants you to help, okay? Enjolras?"

"S’okay, Monsieur Courfeyrac," says Enjolras, wriggling back into Grantaire’s chest comfortably. "He’s gonna teach me how to clap."

And so he does. The round, predictably, falls apart after the second time they sing it because there’s no way for Courfeyrac to sing along with every part without confusing at least one other group, but Enjolras looks much happier now that Grantaire’s hands are over his and they’re clapping in time together, and Courfeyrac thinks that he can deal with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet comes with [art by the awesome Kannibal](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/post/80380470351/oooooh-your-hair-doesnt-stick-in-my-face-now)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is off sick and Enjolras is a rabbit of negative euphoria*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * _Not a happy bunny_

Enjolras is sulking.

As a real responsible adult, Courfeyrac should not want to clasp his hands together and mutter about how cute it is, but he does.

When other children sulk, they are obvious about it, dragging the atmosphere of the entire class down with them. When Enjolras sulks, he tucks himself into a corner and tugs petulantly at his hair and pouts. He pouts a  _lot._

Of course, Courfeyrac is not a monster. He doesn’t enjoy it when his kids are unhappy, even if he knows that it’s nothing serious and so he sidles his way over and crouches down next to Enjolras when the class is under way. “What’s wrong, Enjolras?”

“Nothing,” says Enjolras, tongue sticking out slightly as he concentrates. They’re doing balancing exercises today, which means placing wooden blocks on top of each other and seeing how many they can manage.

Courfeyrac puts his hands on his hips. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” says Enjolras, huffing.

Courfeyrac pulls out the empty chair next to him and sits down in it, and waits. Sure enough, out it comes. “You can’t sit there!” says Enjolras, pushing at Courfeyrac with one tubby hand. “That’s Grantaire’s seat.”

“But Grantaire isn’t here today,” says Courfeyrac. “So it’s okay.”

“No, ‘snot,” mutters Enjolras, nearly knocking his tower over as he lets go of a block too early.

“Is that what’s wrong? Grantaire’s not here today?”

Enjolras crosses his arms, which would be more effective if he could actually cross his arms. He can’t, so it’s more like pressing his forearms together across his stomach and looking murderous. “I don’t like it,” he says in a tiny voice, which means that even Enjolras knows that he’s being irrational about it

“Oh? Do you miss him?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras. “The other kids won’t play with me and it’s boring playing by myself.”

Enjolras has troubles relating to other children, Courfeyrac knows this, whereas Grantaire easily gets along with all of the other children in the class. With Grantaire away, Enjolras loses his gateway into connecting with other people.

“Do you miss Grantaire just because the other kids won’t play with you?” asks Courfeyrac slyly.

“No,” says Enjolras immediately. “I miss  _him_.” He looks at his tower block and wilts a little. “I bet Grantaire’s block tower would be really nice. Mine’s ugly.”

Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. “It’s working out pretty well so far. You’ve got eight bricks on top of each other. Why don’t you see if you can make it ten?”

Enjolras gives him a shrewd look, because he is a precocious child if nothing else. “You can’t be Grantaire even if you try so you should go away and sit in your own seat,” he says reproachfully.

Courfeyrac takes that as the subtle hint it’s meant to be, and gets up out of Grantaire’s tiny chair. His knees were starting to ache anyway. “Grantaire’s down with a cold today,” says Courfeyrac. “His mama said that he’s coughing and sneezing and has a bad headache.

“Is he going to be okay?” asks Enjolras with wide eyes.

“He’ll be fine. He just needs to stay in bed and get lots of rest. When we have drawing this afternoon, why don’t you make him a get well soon card?”

Enjolras nods enthusiastically, and Courfeyrac leaves him to his tower building.

-

When Grantaire gets back, two days later, Enjolras flies through the classroom before he’s even taken his coat off, and wraps himself around Grantaire. “You’re back!”

“Hello,” says Grantaire happily, if still a little blearily, “Enjolras, I can’t breathe.” He doesn’t look too bothered about it though, as Enjolras clutches his head to his chest and won’t let go.

“I made you a card,” announces Enjolras eventually, tugging Grantaire over to their table and evidently seeing nothing wrong with giving someone a Get Well Soon card after they’ve already recovered.

As much as he hates to interrupt their reunion, Courfeyrac has to gently remind him: “Enjolras, we take our coats off and hang them up before coming in here.”

Grantiare helps him wrestle the coat off, and the moment he has one arm pulled out of a sleeve, Enjolras latches back onto Grantaire again, as if he might immediately succumb to illness and be whisked away before his very eyes.

“I made you a card,” Enjolras repeats, coat trailing on the floor behind him by the other arm, and Courfeyrac decides that perhaps it’ll be better to remind him again after he’s presented the card.

Enjolras pulls the card out of his little drawer with a flourish, and hands it over. It’s bright and covered in crayon scribbles and Enjolras spent a good five minutes painstakingly copying the ‘Get Well Soon’ that Courfeyrac had written out for him first.

“Ooooh, thank you,” says Grantaire with delight. “I like the blue dinosaur.”

The blue dinosaur looks like an alien with a tail and Courfeyrac had had to ask Enjolras what it was yesterday. He has literally no idea how Grantaire can tell it’s a blue dinosaur.

“Oh, and the cat,” says Grantaire, pointing at what Courfeyrac had assumed to be a teddy bear.

Enjolras puffs up with pride as Grantaire carefully closes the card and places it in pride of place on the very top of his drawer, and gives Enjolras a big squishy hug.

“You can’t be sick anymore,” says Enjolras very seriously. “I don’t like it when you’re sick.” He steers Grantaire into his seat.

“It’s not my fault,” protests Grantaire. “I didn’t wanna be sick.”

“From now on, if you’re sick, you have to tell me,” says Enjolras, patting the top of his head. “I’ll make it better.”

Courfeyrac, who is definitely not eavesdropping, makes a noise which may have started out as a laugh but was very hastily turned into a cough.

Enjolras looks over. “Are you sick too, M. Courfeyrac?” he asks, eyebrows jumping high on his face. “You should have M. Combeferre kiss you.”

Courfeyrac squawks. “ _What_.”

“That’s how it works. Joly told me. You have to kiss someone and they’ll feel better.”

“I – I’m not sure that’s how it works,” says Courfeyrac. Enjolras scowls at him. “I mean, yes, of course, what was I thinking? Good advice. Excellent. I’ll just… Oh, look, someone’s calling me.” He flees. Damnit, outplayed by an infant.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire takes a mud bath, with a little help from Enjolras.

“M. Courfeyrac?” A timid, quavering voice sounds from just outside the staffroom one dreary afternoon. The rain is thundering down so loudly they can hear it drumming on the roof, the sky is grey and the children have all been banned from playing outside.

Courfeyrac looks up. His jaw drops. Grantaire is standing in the doorway of the staffroom, shivering and wet and completely covered in mud from chin to toe. Behind him, Enjolras hovers, equally soaked but clean, eyes wide and looking terrified.

“ _Mer-_ rrrnnnnng!” says Courfeyrac, and the other teachers look up as one to gape. It’s not just a few smears of mud - it looks like someone submerged him in a tub of the stuff by his ears. “Grantaire! What happened?”

“Was stupid. I tripped,” says Grantaire, which is such a blatant, blatant lie but Courfeyrac will deal with that later. He dashes over, Combeferre right behind him, and they gently herd Grantaire back out into the corridor. 

As they bustle – or, in Grantaire’s case, squelch miserably – towards reception, mud drips off him onto the school floor, thick globs of it plopping onto the ground, and this is the exact sort of reason Courfeyrac no longer wears any variations upon white to school anymore.

“Cosette!” calls Courfeyrac, because it’s a small enough school that reception kind of doubles as the nurse’s office. Cosette turns around and exclaims, pressing her hands over her mouth just before any swear words manage to escape. “Erm,” says Courfeyrac. “A towel and some spare clothes, please?”

Courfeyrac kneels so that he can look directly at Grantaire. Grantaire wrings his tiny hands, causing more mud to splatter everywhere. “It’s okay,” says Courfeyrac. “Let’s get your clothes off and then we can get you all cleaned up, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” says Grantaire in a small voice, his teeth chattering as he looks behind him at the almost-comical trail of footprints he’s left. “I made a mess.”

“It’s okay,” says Courfeyrac again. “We can just clean it up afterwards, don’t worry. Lift your hands up?” Getting the muddy sweatshirt and trousers off Grantaire pretty much just means getting mud everywhere else, especially over Courfeyrac and the reception floor.

Cosette, who is a wonder, arrives back with not only several towels quickly warmed to be comfortable with a hairdryer, but also said hairdryer, a bowl of warm water, clean clothes, and several steaming mugs, disappearing only to reappear almost instantly with a mop and a smile.

Grantaire shivers in his underwear, damp curls trickling water down the back of his neck, and looks so terribly woebegone. “I’m sorry,” he says again, watching Cosette mopping as he peels a sock off and drops it into the pile of ruined clothing. “S’all my fault.”

“Not it wasn’t!” Enjolras, who’s been fidgeting since they got here, is clutching at Combeferre’s leg as they try to keep him out of the mess. He’s been whispering frantically to Combeferre since they got here, and the cry bursts out of him as if he can’t help himself. “It’s not Grantaire’s fault, it’s mine! I pushed him!” He looks like he might cry at the admission, but his mouth is pursed together determinedly.

“Oh?” Courfeyrac wraps one towel around Grantaire before he can catch pneumonia, ruffling the other through his wet hair and then plopping him onto a chair so that he can wash the mud off his face and neck. He tosses the last towel to Combeferre, so he can dry Enjolras off too. “Why did you push him?”

“I was being mean,” says Enjolras quietly, looking down at his shoes.

“Nuh-uh!” says Grantaire, piping up. “I said something bad first.” Never has Courfeyrac had two kids so eager to take the blame. It’s almost refreshing, if he didn’t have to worry about them dying of colds.

“Yeah, but,” says Enjolras, “I still shouldn’t have pushed you. I’m sorry, Grantaire.”

“I shouldn’t have called you a bad friend. I’m sorry too.”

“No! I’m more sorry!” Enjolras bursts into tears, overcome by emotion and not quite old enough to have the mental capacity to deal with it yet.

Grantaire flies out of his chair to wrap his arms around Enjolras, towel burrito and still half covered in mud and all, patting his soggy hair and muttering, “No no no, don’t cry!”

“Okay,” says Courfeyrac eventually, because his kids are  _ridiculous_ and he wouldn’t have it any other way, “let’s all get cleaned up.”

Grantaire stays resolutely in the same chair as Enjolras as Courfeyrac daubs the mud off him, and Enjolras equally resolutely tries to help, which mostly involves transferring the mud from Grantaire’s neck onto Enjolras’s hands, but he’s trying at least.

Combeferre blowdrys their hair and finds a bag to put the dirty clothes in, giving Courfeyrac a comforting clasp on the shoulder as he walks past. Courfeyrac smiles back at him wearily, and tucks Grantaire into a slightly too-big sweatshirt. “Almost done! Just drink this, and then you have time to go to the toilet and wash your hands before class starts again, okay?”

“‘Kay,” says Grantaire, curling his hands around the warm mug. The two boys drain their drinks and hand them back to Cosette. “Thank you M. Courfeyrac. And M. Combeferre and Miss Cosette. And sorry.”

“Sorry,” echoes Enjolras, taking Grantaire’s hand as they finally, finally trot out of reception, neatly avoiding all the mud on the floor.

“I’m more sorry,” they hear Grantaire say as they disappear around the corner. Enjolras’s reply is lost as the door swings closed.

Courfeyrac sighs, and wipes his hand on the grubby towel. “Those two are going to be the death of me.”

“Here,” says Combeferre, and when Courfeyrac turns around, he’s greeted with an enveloping hug. Courfeyrac groans, and lets himself sink into it for a very long moment as Combeferre’s strong arms help him piece himself back together. “And here,” Combeferre adds, holding out a pile of fabric.

Courfeyrac blinks in confusion, and then his face lights up as he realises Combeferre must have gone to his car when the boys were drinking their hot chocolate and taken out his spare clothes. “You are an angel,” he says, daring to press a small kiss to Combeferre’s cheek after he’s stripped down and put on wonderful, comfortable clean clothes. They’re French, that’s perfectly normal expression of thanks, right? Thankfully, Courfeyrac doesn’t have the time to think too much about it. The bell rings, and they both make a run for their classrooms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having teeth is more stressful than it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for [cherishiskisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cherishiskisa/pseuds/cherishiskisa)

Enjolras is sitting on a stair, entire body shaking with loud, wracking sobs and his hand clasped over his mouth; his face is mottled pink, and there is an alarming amount of blood trickling through his fingers.

Stairs are evil creations of doom. Courfeyrac deals with kids falling down stairs, kids falling  _up_  stairs, and kids who block off the entire flight of stairs by moving slower than lethargic snails. This, however. This? Courfeyrac is not qualified to deal with this shit. He looks at the stairs, where there is a tiny, tiny speck of white, a tiny speck of white that used to be half of Enjolras’ tooth, a tooth that used to be in his mouth and is now embedded in the banister of the stairs.

Grantaire points to the banisters. “M. Courfeyrac,” he cries, voice trembling with his own tears, “it came out.”

"Yes," say Courfeyrac. He stares. "Yes, it did."

The story turns out to be this: the two boys are playing, bouncing a rubber ball over the edge of the stairs and seeing if they can make it bounce high enough to catch again, good-naturedly shoving and tickling and nudging each other. As they get further and further up the stairs, the ball gets harder and harder to catch and they lean further and further over the banister to reach it until Grantaire slips, and wobbles over the edge.

Enjolras shouts and grabs at him to pull him back, Grantaire falls back safely but elbows Enjolras in the side of the head as he does, and Enjolras’s face smashes forward into the banister.

"Well," says Courfeyrac faintly as he keeps the pressure on a thick cotton pad to Enjolras’s lip, which split open when the ragged edge of the broken tooth ripped through it, "at least neither of you fell over the bannisters and died."

Grantaire, who has just about calmed down enough to stop crying, hiccups and starts again.

"Oh, no, Grantaire, that’s a good thing!" says Courfeyrac, rubbing his back soothingly. "Enjolras is all right! See? He’s going to be fine." Once the shock of it had passed, Enjolras was remarkably calm about the whole thing. The tears have dried into salty tracks running down his cheeks and his face is only a little bit blotchy now even if he is leaning more into Courfeyrac’s hug than he would normally.

Grantaire, on the other hand, is really good at internalising the blame and has his face pressed into Courfeyrac’s side, his hands tight little fists in Courfeyrac’s woollen sweater. “Grantaire?” says Courfeyrac gently, trying to pry him out. “Grantaire, it’s all right. You didn’t mean to hurt Enjolras.”

"But I did anyway!" Grantaire pulls his face away for long enough say this, revealing his snotty, snotty face, sniffs loudly and wetly, and burrows back into Courfeyrac’s side.

"Iths okay!" says Enjolras, piping up despite the huge amount of fabric in his mouth, "it doethn’t even hurt!" He wriggles off his stair to step around Courfeyrac’s knees and then sits on the other side of Grantaire, and pulls him into a big hug. "Not hurt, thsee?!"

"Sorry," mumbles Grantaire, wiping his nose across the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "Made you bleed everywhere."

"Iths okay," says Enjolras again, far too cheerfully considering half his tooth is currently in a piece of tissue in Courfeyrac’s pocket, "I’ll get money from the little mouse now!"

Grantaire blinks, the remnants of tears clumping his dark eyelashes together, and then thoughtfully tugs his front tooth, which remains distressingly solid and will for at least another year or so. “Awww, I want some too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The little mouse ( _la petite souris_ ) is what French people have instead of the tooth fairy.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac is going to have to bust out the ‘personal property’ speech earlier than he expected.

"I got run over!" says Grantaire cheerfully, and runs off to show Enjolras his cast. Courfeyrac gapes.

Grantaire walks in one morning with his usual sunny disposition and a stark white cast encasing his right arm. Enjolras and Grantaire get into plenty of scrapes, and most of them result in nothing more serious than a few grazes and a bout of crying, and so Courfeyrac watches him in amazement. “What happened?” he asks.

"A cyclist knocked him over," says Grantaire’s mother with a put upon expression, hanging up his forgotten jacket and waving goodbye. "He’s been telling everyone he got run over though. Please look after him?" Courfeyrac duly nods, and saves his sigh for after she leaves, rolling up his sleeves and trying not to worry too much about the quickly growing gaggle of children surrounding Grantaire as he shows off his cast.

It doesn’t stay white for long. Ten minutes in the sand pit renders it an odd yellow-khaki colour, break time gets it grubby brown splotches and any time the children are near coloured pens, a dozen multi-coloured scribbles appear on it. “Enjolras?” says Courfeyrac, reading the shaky writing lettered across the length in red marker. They haven’t touched on writing yet, but Enjolras always was a fast learner and his parents have had him taught how to write at home. “Are you Enjolras now?”

"No!  _I’m_  Enjolras!” says Enjolras indignantly. “Me, me!”

"I’m  _Grantaire_ ,” says Grantaire.

"Ah, but then why does it say Enjolras?" says Courfeyrac, waving a finger at the two of them and grinning helplessly. "Shouldn’t it say ‘Grantaire’ if this is Grantaire?"

Enjolras sighs. “Nooooooo,” he says, sounding as if he’s barely resisting adding ‘duh’ onto the end of that, “My pencilcase says ‘Enjolras’ because it’s my pencilcase. My coat says ‘Enjolras’ because it’s my coat. And this says Enjolras because he’s  _my_  friend.”

"I seeeeee," says Courfeyrac. He picks up the purple marker. "So should I write ‘Courfeyrac’ on here?"

Enjolras shrieks and flings himself at Courfeyrac, clinging to his legs and making Courfeyrac almost topple over. “No! He’s  _MY_  FRIEND!”

Courfeyrac barely contains his laughter as he pries Enjolras off and crouches down. “But you aren’t Grantaire’s only friend, you know. You don’t own Grantaire.”

Enjolras pouts. “But I’m his  _best_ friend!” He swivels to look at Grantaire desperately and grabs his arm as if it has suddenly occurred to him that Grantaire might not think that. “Right?!”

"Right!" says Grantaire, beaming.

(When Courfeyrac collects his class after break, he is absolutely not even _remotely_  surprised to see that Enjolras is now sporting ‘GRANTAIRE’ written wonkily across his forehead. Not even a little bit.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Painting is twice as difficult when you’re four and can’t move your paintbrush properly, and at least ten times more fun when no paintbrushes are involved at all.

When it comes to art time, Grantaire sinks into a sulk. His fingers are trapped by his cast and it hurts for him to move his right hand. He’s not supposed to be using it much anyway, but he can’t paint half as neatly with his left hand.

"I don’t like it," Grantaire admits in a small voice, looking down at a blob of orange and black. Given they’re supposed to be painting jungle-related things today, Courfeyrac guesses that it’s a leopard.

"I know!" says Enjolras, who is working on a stick elephant. (It looks exactly the same as a stick person, but has a long grey nose that Courfeyrac half thought to be a mistake at first.) "If you can’t use with that hand, I won’t too!"

Courfeyrac leaves them to their burgeoning displays of solidarity as he is pulled away to another table to mediate on what the proper colour for a parrot is. It really ought to be less of a surprise when he turns around not five minutes later to see that Enjolras has wedged the end of his paintbrush into the gap for his missing tooth, and is enthusiastically bobbing his head as Grantaire chortles in laughter. His elephant is starting to look more like a really big, blobby cloud.

"Enjolras," says Courfeyrac gently, "what would happen if something accidentally pushed your head forward right now?" He mimes the paintbrush jamming forwards into his mouth, and Enjolras sheepishly takes it back out.

"Sorry," mumbles Enjolras.

Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. “I know you’re just trying to cheer Grantaire up. But maybe something that won’t kill you if it goes wrong?”

"Okay," says Enjolras, and the little furrowed brow that is an indication of a tiny, scheming Enjolras really ought to scare Courfeyrac. He makes a mental note to keep even more of an eye on them than usual.

The problem is: Grantaire and Enjolras have started to get sneaky. They seem to automatically know when Courfeyrac is distracted by someone else taking up his attention and in his defence, he  _does_  have eighteen other children to care for and he is adamant not to neglect any of them. There’s a bout of mischievous giggling that Courfeyrac assumes means that they’re planning something but then there’s paint pots to refill and spills to take care of and ruined paintings to help salvage and honestly, this is a nursery school painting class so children having paint on their hands is so normal that Courfeyrac doesn’t even notice it anymore.

He really ought to have though.

"Um," says Courfeyrac. The paint pots have little lids on them to help prevent spillage (though it still happens all the time) and they’re not even that big but Grantaire and Enjolras have pried the lids off their paint pots and managed to dunk their tiny fists inside them. What’s even worse is that the entire half of the classroom near them has copied them, and he is now facing ten children with multi-coloured hands looking far too pleased with themselves.

"Look, M Courfeyrac!" says Enjolras, gesturing at his painting. "It’s a giraffe!" If this were any other paint time, Courfeyrac would actually be really proud of him because it actually at least resembles an animal today, if not for the fact that the body has five legs because it is in fact an  _upside-down hand print_.

"That’s very good," Courfeyrac says faintly. "But next time… Next time, maybe you should roll your sleeves up first?"

(When Grantaire arrives the next morning, the end two inches of his cast is still stained a light blue.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing is caring, and Eponine neither shares nor cares. Enjolras disapproves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [notquiteachild](http://notquiteachild.tumblr.com/), who won a fic giveaway from me!

“Can I have a turn?” asks Enjolras, who has been eyeing the playground’s newest toys with undisguised want. As the life of all new toys generally go, the oldest children had got a hold of them first and get first dibs until they got bored and the younger children would inevitably get their turn. However, it’s only been a couple of days since the new fleet of street scooters had appeared and Eponine has somehow managed to get her hands on one and seeing how she’s the same age as them, that means that Enjolras’ hopes have risen.

Eponine considers it. “No,” she says.

Enjolras’ face crumples in confusion – that’s not the socially prescribed answer to that question after all, and now he doesn’t know how to respond. “But–”

“Finders keepers,” says Eponine firmly, “And I found Montparnasse and keeped the scooter. So it’s mine now.”

Courfeyrac is reasonably sure that this is not how Finders Keepers works, and hastily scans the playground for any signs of a particularly beat-up Montparnasse. He spots him near the grassy area holding two scooters though, so it might actually be that he’s running a scooter black market over there. Also, Marius is on playground duty near the grassy area which means it is entirely not Courfeyrac’s problem anymore. 

Enjolras considers this new piece of information. “Sharing is caring,” he replies solemnly, which is rich because he only ever shares with Grantaire. 

“Don’t care. Don’t share.” Eponine sticks her nose into the air and sails off on her scooter, leaving Enjolras crestfallen to stomp back over to the water buckets and play with Grantaire. 

Enjolras is not one to give up however. At playtime the next day, he spots Eponine with a scooter again – which is interesting as of itself because the toys are left in the playground and ostensibly whoever gets there first gets to play with them until hustled off by a larger child so Courf has no idea how she keeps managing to get a hold of one.

Marching up to Eponine, Enjolras tries a new tactic this time. “I get a turn after you’re finished,” he announces, doing away with the question altogether.

Eponine’s eyes narrow. “Okay,” she says, and Courf’s eyebrows raise by themselves at the ease with which she accepts that. 

Ten minutes later, Eponine is still on the scooter, and Enjolras is muttering mutinously at his mittens. “It’s my turn now,” he tries when she zooms past him.

“Nope,” she says. “Not finished yet.”

Grantaire waddles up, snug in his puffy jacket, and pushes an appeasing lump of play-doh into Enjolras’ hands. “She didn’t say how long her turn was, did she?” he says woefully. He wants to play with the scooters too – the pinnacle of speed when you can’t even ride a bike, Courf supposes – but unlike Enjolras he’s better at biding his time. 

Enjolras pokes at the play-doh and scowls. “No.”

The next playtime, after lunch, they team up. “We want a turn!” yells Enjolras, running fruitlessly after Eponine as she scoots literal circles around him. “It’s our turn!”

“Our turn, our turn!” screeches Grantaire like a parrot, running in the opposite direction as they attempt to pen her down. Eponine climbs into the wooden playhouse still clutching the scooter and barricades herself in, glaring at them through the tiny window. This one counts as a half-win because even though they didn’t get the scooter, Eponine isn’t playing with it either.

Their fourth attempt involves splitting up. Enjolras runs out in front of Eponine as she’s scooting around, flinging his arms out wide. “Stop!” he bellows. 

Eponine rolls to a stop before she can hit him and she’s just opening her mouth to say something when Grantaire runs past with a giant plastic pineapple on his head. “AHHHHHHHHHHH,” screams Grantaire, until he loses grip of the pineapple and it falls off his head and bounces across the ground.

Eponine stares. Actually, most of the playground stares. Heck, Courfeyrac stares. Enjolras takes advantage of the minor spectacle to try and wrestle the scooter away from Eponine. 

It’s like a very badly planned hit-and-run pickpocketing because it ends up with Eponine on the ground, screaming and hugging the scooter, Enjolras tugging on the handlebars, also screaming, and Grantaire hurtling across the playground as the pineapple rolls away, yelling “CATCH MY PINEAPPLE.”

Crap, it might be time to step in before this escalates. 

“Guys,” says Courfeyrac firmly. He likes to try and encourage the kids to self-govern themselves, figure out social boundaries and so on, but he can’t have two kids physically wrestling over a piece of school equipment.

Eponine bursts into crocodile tears, loud and wailing and entirely not real. Enjolras bursts into tears of shock because he’s probably figured out that he’s been caught doing something bad. Grantaire trots back, having finally recaptured his giant plastic pineapple and sees that both of them have let go of the scooter and attempts to sneak off with it. 

“You too, Grantaire,” sighs Courfeyrac, and takes control of the scooter. He squats down so that he’s at eye level with all of them.

“I was on the scooter,” says Eponine furiously, face red and blotchy with the effort of making herself cry.

“She’s had the scooter for AGES,” retorts Enjolras. “She’s not sharing and that’s NOT ALLOWED.”

“Finders keepers,” mutters Grantaire, scuffing his shoes.

Courfeyrac raises a hand. “I’ve been watching,” he tells them. “Eponine, Enjolras is right. You have to share your toys when people ask nicely. If you don’t share your toys then other people won’t share with you.”

Enjolras puffs up proudly, but Courf moves onto him next. “And Enjolras, you know pushing people isn’t nice. What do we do instead?”

“We use our words,” mutters Enjolras. “Or we tell you or M. Combeferre or M. Marius.”

Courfeyrac nods, and moves on. “And Grantaire–”

“I didn’t do anything!” says Grantaire, looking outraged. Courf gives him his best unimpressed look. “Much,” he amends, attempting to hide the pineapple behind his back.

“Let’s try something new instead,” says Courfeyrac, standing and leading them all towards the sports area. He fishes around in one of the cupboards for a stopwatch, and sets it to five minutes. That’s not entirely unreasonable, given playtime is only twenty minutes to start with and they’ve already spent long enough sorting this out. 

He holds out the stopwatch. “Let’s make sure that everyone has equal turns, okay? Eponine’s already had a very long turn, so it’s Enjolras next and then Grantaire. When you press this button, your turn starts, and when it gets to zero, your turn is over, okay?”

Eponine effectively having been turfed off the scooters for the rest of this breaktime says something about how she isn’t that interested anyway, and marches off towards the climbing frame.

Enjolras and Grantaire grin, and run off with their new prize.

Courfeyrac makes a mental note to check in with each of them later in the afternoon to see if they need to talk about this some more, and well. That should be the end of it, really.

It’s not.

Enjolras is a regular little stickler for the timer. It’s probably his new best friend behind Grantaire and they’ve expanded the little group of them sharing the single scooter (the rest of the precious scooters still being hoarded among Combeferre’s class). That’s probably because Grantaire had got involved though, and most of the class get on well with Grantaire and when asked if someone else could have a turn, Grantaire would nod enthusiastically, and direct them to Enjolras, who is very good at remembering whose turn goes next and is wielding the Stopwatch of Fairness. 

He honestly seems more absorbed in making sure that everyone has an equal go than in playing with the scooters himself now.

Eponine had come out, seen the cluster of people and huffed, probably realising that the queue was now too long for her to get a go now. She disappears and reappears moments later with another scooter – seriously, what on earth? Courfeyrac looks around again to see Montparnasse now hoarding a collection of skateboards, and figures that he’s been forcibly put out of the scooter business – but what’s really surprising is that when Enjolras blows his plastic whistle to signal time, she gives her scooter up to the next person in line, Grantaire.

“Shorter line if there’s two,” is all she says when Grantaire stares after her. 

Grantaire’s turn only lasts about thirty seconds before he shuffles off it and sighs.

“What’s wrong?” asks Enjolras, looking up with concern.

“S’no fun just by myself,” says Grantaire. “I want to play together, with you. You should take the other one.”

Enjolras shakes his head staunchly. “S’not my turn yet.”

“But when it’s your turn, it won’t be my turn too,” says Grantaire, which is fairly remarkable logic for that age. 

“I’m busy anyway,” says Enjolras, waving the stopwatch at him. He seems to have forgotten the fervour with which he fought to get a turn in the first place. “I’ve got to make sure everyone gets proper turns.”

Grantaire’s shoulders slump. “But I want to play with you, what’s the point of getting the scooters if we’re not going to have fun with them?”

Enjolras looks torn between his new role and the sight of Grantaire pouting. “I didn’t meant to make you sad.”

“You could share my turn. And then I’ll share your turn.” says Grantaire after a good twenty seconds of sulky silence.

Enjolras thinks it over. “Sharing is caring?” he ventures eventually. Grantaire beams at him and loops the timer over Enjolras’ head so he can pull him onto the scooter behind Grantaire. 

When the stopwatch goes off, Enjolras gets off and blows his whistle, and when he and Grantaire switch positions. When Grantaire gets on behind Enjolras, Enjolras reaches back and snags his hands so that they’re wrapped around Enjolras’ waist. “So you don’t fall off,” he says very solemnly, and then whizzes them around the playground, Grantaire giggling.

Courf smiles into his scarf, glad that they could figure something out themselves.

Near the grassy area, Eponine bashes Montparnasse over the head with a giant plastic pineapple, and runs off with a skateboard. Courfeyrac pinches his nose, and tries to get Marius’ attention.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://defractum.tumblr.com/)! :3


End file.
